Falling Upwards
by Smim
Summary: "It's been almost a year John."  "Since Sherlock died?" John cried looking up at her, "Yes I know, I had noticed. You'd think I'd recall my best friend killing himself don't you? Though he didn't, I know he didn't; he'd never do that to me."


A.N: Hello there! Me and my friend wrote this together! Hope you like it.x

Sherlock Holmes walked along one of the many high streets in Egoreni, a relatively small town in the Raionul Soroca region of Moldova. With a population of only around 7858, it was as inconspicuous as he was going to get. Green seemed to be everywhere, and Sherlock was getting bored. He missed John, also Mrs Hudson and Lestrade but mostly John. He shook his head as if to clear these thoughts, but stopped again as he saw the front page of the local newspaper; it read **MAN SAVES CAT. **Though that wasn't the interesting part, picking up the slightly damp newspaper, he read the paragraph underneath it. Skimming through the frankly second class journalism, he noticed that the first letter of every sentence seemed to be spelling something out. The first sentence began with an **I, **which didn't seem odd, but the second began with a **B **and the third with an **E. **After double checking that he was right, it was definite that the paragraph spelt out; **I B E L I E V E I N S H E R L O C K H O L M E S. **

"John I read your latest article," his therapist said in her monotonous tone.

"Man saves cat?" he replied playing innocent, "Didn't think that one was quite up to scratch, then again the story line was a little tedious…"

"This has to stop," she interrupted him with a calm instruction. "All these hidden messages in your articles, it has to stop John."

"I don't know what you're talking…"

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was real. Richard Brooke was a fake. And again I believe in Sherlock Holmes," she sighed and leant back in her chair, inconspicuously tucking her notepad from view but John noticed this subtle movement. "At first I thought you becoming a journalist was a good idea but I don't think its helping. Maybe take a break for a while, go on holiday."

He shook his head, "No I don't want to, I have to write, I have to work." He clenched his knees tightly and curled his toes in his shoes.

"John, you need to stop distracting yourself," she crossed her legs. "You have to accept that he's…"

"Stop right there!" John felt his voice grow in pitch and a lump bulge in his throat. He fisted his hands into his eyes.

He heard his therapist whistle out an empathetic sigh, "It's been almost a year John."

"Since Sherlock died?" John cried looking up at her, "Yes I know, I had noticed. You'd think I'd recall my best friend killing himself don't you? Though he didn't, I know he didn't; he'd never do that to me. The stupid, stupid man! Who was always so bloody unbearably clever! Constantly correcting every grammar mistake, every misplaced apostrophise, every bloody thing that was wrong!" He could feel his eyes becoming damp but yet the words just seemed to be tumbling uncontrollably form his lips, "And those ruddy cheek bones and that upturned collar and that deep rumbling voice that would could on and on about we needed milk or why he shot a smiley face in the wall AND how he was BORED!"

"John, I think you should clam down…"

"What an excellent diagnosis," he snapped before shrugging on his jacket and standing. "I really should have listened to Mycroft. You don't understand me at all." He walked to the door but paused before leaving.

"Thank you Mrs. Daniels, for trying," he said. "But I don't think I need these sessions anymore." He gave the door a swift push with his palm and slipped out the door.

The crowds in the pub shrieked with joy as the clock struck twelve; John politely looked in the other direction from Harry drunkenly kissing Clara with her hands loosely hanging over her shoulders. He knew it had been a bad idea; coming out with his sister, she and Clara had only just made up and even he could sense the awkward tension. He spun the half full beer between his hands before dizzily standing; he hadn't even consumed that much alcohol but being so small it didn't take much to slur his brain. He clumsily pushed through people in the pub holding his breath so he didn't breath in the smoke from their cigarettes; he didn't appreciate the memories it triggered. He stumbled outside the cold night air smacking him; sharpening his senses. He zipped up his jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets; walking along the pavement. Eleven months and one week. It was probably a bad idea keeping count but John couldn't kick the habit. Making the event categorical and scientific in every way possible helped to muffle the emotions that arose whenever he thought of Sherlock. _That damn man_. John cursed; Sherlock had managed to take over his life even though he was absent. John hadn't thought of much else, no relationships had got past a first date and he rarely saw Stamford now. He sighed and pulled up his jacket collar against the chilling breeze but then he quickly flattened it out again.

After reading the newspaper, Sherlock had decided that he was to go home. People had bought his "death" so easily, and the idea that he was a fraud, except John of course. That day in the graveyard had shown him this, it had also shown him that John would be fine – he was a soldier, and soldiers were always strong. Being as bored of green as he was, he booked that flight back for that afternoon, New Year's Eve. He had bought the tickets in Mycroft's name as to attract less attention; the people in Moldova had been less than interested in his story so had left him alone – which was pleasant to an degree.

As the taxi pulled up, Sherlock checked for security cameras, Mycroft had his thumbs in all sorts of pies. He had next to no luggage, how much luggage can you have when you're dead? The plane was small and non-descript and the flight was long, but still as non-descript. The advantage of it being a private plane was that it landed at the back of the airport, so less need for disguise. Although it was nearly a year after his death, Sherlock still didn't want to be spotted.

Heading for Hyde Park he kept to the back streets, there was something comfortably homey about the park, he had often come here to sit and think if a case was troubling him. Making his way to the centre he kept a look out for dog walkers and weirdly keen cyclists. Once he was sure he was alone, he stopped and straightened up once more. The wind playing softly in his dark curls, he took a deep breath in and spotted a bench a little distance away, complete with scruffy figure.

Sherlock approached the bench with none of this previous caution; the figure next to him did not stir, though Sherlock let out a breath noisily. The soft breeze carried the scent of his companion to him, and it was strangely familiar. Frowning, he turned his head slightly to observe the profile next to him. The figure had pale hair from what he could see, as well as a rounded face a small dimple in his chin that was turned inwards as he looked down. A shock of realisation went through him as he saw who he was sitting with properly for the first time. It was John.

"Nice night isn't it?" Sherlock started his voice rough and shaky.

"Hmm," John replied, still not looking up from the floor.

"Not too many clouds, just perfect." Said Sherlock, his voice cracking on the last word. This time John did look up.

John made some kind of angry noise before lunging at Sherlock, gripping his collar; "Sherlock!" he cried; not sure whether he was feeling angry or happy. "I'm going to kill you," he cried. Most definitely angry that time.

"Well that would be ironic," Sherlock mustered; his breath hot against John's noise. It was then that John realised how close their faces were; he quickly pulled back feeling the soft fabric of Sherlock's coat slip from between his fingers.

"It's been a year Sherlock," John said sounding hurt. "A whole bloody year. Do you have any idea how lonely I was? I…I, I thought you were dead for god's sake." He bent over placing his head in his warm hands; the warmth of Sherlock next to him burning into his side. The man was so close to him yet his presence still felt surreal. A warm gloved hand slid over his shoulder but he shrugged it off, "Did you not think Sherlock, that I'd be hurt? Worried? You could have written, texted me or…" John was embarrassed to feel something wet roll down his cheek. "Just a sign that you were alive, that's all I wanted. That was all I needed."

"Needed?" echoed Sherlock. "Why would you need me?" Surely it had been him, Sherlock who had needed John?

John shook his head, tears streaming freely down his face now. "Don't you understand Sherlock?" He choked, scrubbing the tears from his face.

"Evidently not!" Sherlock shot back in frustration. John pushed himself up off the bench and turned to face him; following his movement Sherlock stood up and faced his best friend. Was John still his best friend?

"I'm sorry," said John. Suddenly looking so defeated that Sherlock automatically reached out his hand for a second time, the difference being that this time John left it there.

"What have you to be sorry about? It was I who faked his own death! Such a human thing, to apologise for something over which they had no control." Sherlock's face was wet now, he looked straight into John's eyes, not caring that his own where probably puffy and red. "I missed you John."

With that he engulfed John in an enormous hug, surprising himself, and evidently John who stood still for a second, then relaxed into Sherlock's chest still breathing hard and fast with emotion.

"I'm back John, I'm back." He crooned.


End file.
